


A Red Mist

by schmutzigvogel (kunstvogel)



Category: An Unfinished Life (2005)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunstvogel/pseuds/schmutzigvogel
Summary: Gary Winston's past comes back to haunt him.





	A Red Mist

"Griff," Jean calls from her spot at the porch table, "there's something I want to tell you."

Griff cocks her head, curious, and stuffs her pictures in a folder. She climbs down from her spot on the unfinished treehouse, which Grandpa Einar was planning on finishing soon. The girl had been drawing out plans for it, eager to imagine what kind of house she would have to herself - and, of course, the farm cats.

"What is it, Mom?" She stands before her mother, who gestures for her to sit down at the other side of the table.

"I want to explain to you why Gary did what he did," she smiles tightly, looking hesitant. Griff stills at the mention of that awful man, certain he was gone from their life now and wondering why she'd brought him up. She takes a seat, wringing her hands, hesitant.

"Griff, honey, people aren't black and white. There's good in everyone when they're born, but evil comes from what they go through. Some people, like you and me, go through a lot of bad things but still come out alright." She pauses, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Gary went through a lot of bad things when he was young, too. He didn't turn out okay, though, because it broke him. What Gary did to me...what he did, his father had done to him, too."

"But it doesn't make it okay, does it?" Griff asks, confused.

"No, of course it doesn't. Nobody deserves to go through what any of us did. I'm just explaining that he wasn't  _ evil _ , Griff, he was ill, and  he needs to get help to stop hurting people. I tried to get him to look for help, but...you know how he reacted to that."

"Will he get help now, Mommy?"

"That's what I'm worried about," Jean sighs. "I'm worried he'll just find someone else to take his past out on."

-

Gary lay slumped in the back seat of a coach bus, hissing from the unbearable pain that shot through his battered body every time the vehicle ran over a bump in the road. Which happened frequently enough that he feared he might need to throw up soon.

He hadn't sought out a hospital after Einar beat him so ruthlessly, more concerned with getting the hell out of Wyoming before the man buried him. Sheriff Crane took care of that - he had picked him up (dragged his broken body out of his useless car and into the back seat of a squad car) and dumped him off at the bus station, telling him in no uncertain terms that he would kill him if he ever saw his face again.

He knew from past experience that he had at least two broken ribs, a broken nose, and possibly a minor concussion. His face was badly bruised, his left eye still swollen shut, and his split lip had left a dried trail of blood down his chin. Gary had received more than a few concerned glances from other passengers.

The redhead stares dimly out the window as the desert sand and sharp, rocky land slowly faded back into the familiar lush grass and plains of the Midwest. Iowa had been his home all his life - he'd missed it terribly during the month he'd spent haunting Jean in Wyoming. Despite the terrible memories he associated with the state, Iowa was still his home.

The bus rattles as it hits a particularly nasty pothole, eliciting a sharp jolt of agony that makes Gary cry out involuntarily. He finally lurches up out of his seat and staggers into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up his breakfast, which is followed by an alarming amount of sticky blood.

"Fuck," he groans, retching dryly as another round of nausea wrings out his emptied stomach. The agony that tears through his ribcage is terrible, nearly enough to make him pass out, and he keeps an arm wrapped protectively around the injury out of instinct. Somehow, though, Gary manages to drag himself up onto his feet and back into his seat, ignoring the alarmed stares of other passengers.

He lets unconsciousness embrace him completely, half-hoping that he won't ever wake up.

-

Gary is shaken awake by the bus driver.

"Hey, you alright? End of the line at Omaha, Nebraska, you gotta get off now, pal."

"Help me up," Gary grits out. The driver obliges, helping the redhead onto his two feet and steadying him.

"You should get to a hospital," the driver comments, mildly concerned. "What the hell happened to you to get ya this fucked up, anyway?"

"It's none of your fuckin' business," Gary growls. "'Sides, I've had worse. If you'd direct me to the nearest motel, that'd be great." He stands under his own strength, grabs his suitcase in one hand, and makes his way towards the door of the bus unsteadily.

"There's a Super 8 a block away."

"Thanks," Gary steps off then, walks through the howling Nebraska rain with only dim streetlights to guide him. He spots the motel, checks out a room, and collapses onto the bed, exhausted.

Gary rests for a few minutes before going into the bathroom to check his injuries. He peels off the faded denim button down and red T-shirt, both sopping wet, and assesses the damage inflicted upon him. There's nothing superficial that he can bandage or clean, just angry red-blue-black bruises and swelling, so he runs himself a hot bath and slides into the clean water with a weary sigh.

Jean comes back into his mind for the first time since he'd gotten on the bus. Anger settles over him like it always does, a red mist that blinds and chokes him, squeezing his lungs tightly, but it's quickly replaced with something less familiar: the syrupy black tar of depression, regret, betrayal. He's hurt all his life, but so rare is the feeling of sadness that he'd forgotten how it felt until now.

Jean had been the best thing to happen to him. Before his first breakdown, she'd been loving, gentle, and soothing. She'd brought peace to his shattered mind, chased his father's sharp voice and rough hands away. He'd loved her. They could have been beautiful. He'd loved Griff, too, loved her youth and innocence and creativity. She'd lost her father, seen her mother take abuse from previous boyfriends, but the darkness had never touched her. She still had her youth - something Gary had never had the chance to enjoy.

If only he hadn't drank, before his first true breakdown. His father was violent when drunk. He swore and broke things and hit Gary and the boy's mother when he drank. Gary felt his gut coil uncomfortably - he was the same, with or without alcohol - but drinking made it worse; his wrath was twice as worse as his father's. He'd hit Jean so hard that first time, worse than any of those which followed. She should've been hospitalized, but Gary hadn't let her go.

Gary hears his father's voice now, leering, insulting, slurred with drink. Feels the heat of his revolting breath, sees the ghostly, lurid face in the back of his head.  _ "Couldn't even keep that girl. You worthless little shit. You're a disgrace, Gary." _

"No," he cries, cradling his head in his hands and pulling his knees to his chest. "No, go away. I don't wanna talk to you."

_ "She made it better, but you couldn't keep her, could you? You don't deserve to be better." _

"Go away," he chokes out, fear overriding the spark of anger in his chest. Only his father could smother his rage through intimidation and threat, and only Jean could wash it away with her gentle caresses, their breathless lovemaking. While his father simply replaced anger with fear, she'd given him hope and just a taste of what had eluded him for so long: happiness.

_ "But Jean is gone now, isn't she, son?" _ His father sneers.  _ "She left you for a better man. Someone who isn't a failure. Some man who isn't as pathetic as you." _

"I-I'm not-" whatever Gary had thought to say is cut short as he accepts the cold, hard truth of the dead man's words. It sinks into his heart like a knife and he gulps for air, clutches at his chest, throat burning with a silent scream and eyes screwed shut as if to protect himself from the painful realization.

_ "Go on, admit it," _ the ghost jeers, the booze heavy on his breath, his thick pale fingers pushing the invisible knife deeper into Gary.

"I'm," Gary whines, gasps sharply, "I'm weak, a failure. I'm nothing."

_ "Good boy," _ his father chuckles, and the knife in his chest slides out. The pain recedes, leaves him feeling empty and hopeless. The smell of booze fades away, gradually replaced with the musty odor of the crappy motel bathroom. Gary remains curled in the tub, shivering, still fearful of the man who'd never even been there to begin with. After what seems like an eternity, the silence grows suffocating and he forces himself to clamber out of the bath and dry off.

His hands tremble noticeably as he pulls a clean pair of boxers over his legs. Gary opens a window and lights a cigarette, letting the warm smoke fill his lungs and calm him.

He's considerably more relaxed by the time he finishes the cigarette, which he tosses out the window. Gary flicks the TV on and falls unceremoniously onto the bed, cringing as the mattress creaks terribly.

The drone of the television and the badly-sprung bed somehow lure him into sleep.

Gary dreams.

-

Jean's skin is soft, smooth, still unmarked by scars or signs of age. Gary trails his hands along the expanse of milky flesh reverently, admiring her perfection. His own skin is rough, sallow, freckled and lined with stress, covered with puckered white scars from various injuries - most of which were incurred at the hands of his father. He's not perfect and he never believes Jean when she says he's handsome or attractive.

But Jean - god, she's the most beautiful thing he's seen. He presses a kiss to the base of her neck, inhales the smell of her conditioner and the heady musk of sex, works the tension out of the knotted muscles in her back.

Jean is quiet, still in a blissful haze of drowsiness. Gary doesn't feel inclined to say anything, but grows nervous. He doesn't do well in silence. His mind has nothing to distract from wandering into the dark places he tries to block out. He struggles to focus on his hands, on the strong movements he uses to massage Jean's back, fights to focus on  _ her _ , the lingering taste of her on his lips, the sweet scent of her hair, the unblemished skin beneath his long fingers.

His mind ultimately begins to wander, and the voices again start to jeer and insult him. He tenses, grimacing helplessly, wishing it would stop. Memories flash before his eyes, vague and ghostly but just as real as they had been while happening. Gary tries to keep it together, control himself. But he's slipping, losing ground quickly.

Gary flinches sharply as his father brings a leather belt down on him with a crack. He realizes it was just an extremely vivid memory when Jean's concerned face comes back into his vision.

"Gary?" She inquires, "Are you alright?"

The redhead manages a twitchy smile, pulls his hands away from her skin abruptly. "I'm fine," he lies tersely. "Just need a smoke."

"I wish you'd stop that," she sighs, frowning. "it'll kill you some day."

Gary doesn't manage to cover his annoyed scowl quickly enough, shattering the pleasant mood in the room, souring it with tension. He leaves her side, slips a bathrobe over his shoulders, grabs the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. He steps out into the rain, slams the porch door behind him, lights a stick with trembling fingers, and finally, finally takes a long drag of nicotine.

His father slides into the space behind him, a dark, ominous presence as always, never revealing his face but undeniably there.

"Leave me alone," he murmurs helplessly. There's nothing he can do - his father will appear only because he accepts that the man is there, haunting him, ruining, devastating. He's afraid to let the man go, afraid to accept that he's gone, dead, buried six feet underground at the cemetery in Woodburn, the smallest town in Iowa, where the rest of Gary's family had lived miserably and died unremarkably.

The ghost doesn't speak, this time. His familiar reek of booze overwhelms Gary's nostrils, and he throws down his cigarette angrily. He rushes back into the house, fetches one of the beers from the bottom of the fridge.

"Gary?" Jean's voice comes from behind him, and he whirls round to face her. "I thought you didn't drink." She's dressed now, seated at the kitchen table. He hadn't noticed her when he came in, blinded by his anger.

"I don't." His voice cracks. He twists the lid off and takes a swig, cringing as it burns a trail down his throat.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken," Jean remarks, "but it looks like you're drinking right now."

Her snide tone makes something inside of him snap. Gary slams the bottle down onto the counter, nearly hard enough to shatter the glass, and steps towards Jean, grabbing her arm tightly. She cries out, alarmed and indignant, but stills when she sees the expression of pure fury on his face.

"Don't you dare," Gary growls. "Don't you ever fucking talk down to me, alright?"

"Gary," her voice shakes, her blue eyes wide with fear, "you're hurting me."

His grasp tightens, intending to bruise, eliciting a pained gasp from the blonde. "You think this is pain? You don't know pain," his voice rumbles dangerously. "You don't know what it is to hurt, so much and for so long, that it starts to feel normal, proper. You don't know how it feels when you start to think you don't deserve any better."

Gary releases his hold on her arm, picks the bottle off of the counter, and takes a long draw from it. Jean remains frozen in her spot, watching Gary distrustfully. He recognizes her expression - it'd been drawn across his own face enough times in his life. A pang of guilt coils his stomach and he sighs wearily.

"I'm sorry, Jean," he breathes. "I just- I-I don't know what came over me."

_ A red mist, _ his father's voice answers for him.

"It's okay," she whispers. "It's alright to lose control sometimes. It will get better, I promise. You just need someone to help you, Gary. You've been fighting to stay strong for too long."

"No-one can help me," Gary replies emptily.

"There are professionals. They can help you," Jean intends to be helpful, but it's the wrong thing to say.

"Professionals?" Gary snaps, "You mean therapists, psychologists? You think I'm crazy, Jean?!"

"Gary-" the fear comes off of Jean in waves, and the sharp smell of it only serves to further infuriate the redhead.

"You want those doctors to lock me up in a cell and play mind games, twist everything I say and do and shove pills down my throat? Is that what you want? 'Cause that's all  _ professional _ help amounts to!"

"Gary, it's not like that anymore. Times have changed. They'll help you. It isn't an asylum."

"Just listen to yourself," Gary growls. "That's exactly what they want you to believe, so it makes it all seem okay."

"You need to grow up," Jean sneers. "You're wrong but you're just too childish to accept that and listen to what I have to say!"

It's the straw that broke the camel's back. Red floods Gary's vision. There are vague impressions - the sound of glass shattering, the enormous strength of his fist plowing into something, the sensation of it cracking under his knuckles. Jean screams, a wretched cry of pain and terror. He's pushed, his back hits something sharp.

There's more weight under his fists and pressure on his knees and Jean's agonized cries, and then the world shifts and resets, and he's straddling her hips, knees on the kitchen floor, blood flowing from Jean's crooked nose and her pale shaking hands protecting her ribs.

Griff is there, too, awake now and staring at Gary with wide, terrified eyes.

"Mommy?" Her voice is tiny, scared. "Is Gary hurting you?"

Gary flinches, sees himself in Griff's eyes, and hides his face as a wail tears through his throat. Jean uses the moment of vulnerability to wriggle out from beneath him and run over to Griff, collecting the girl in her arms and rushing out of the house.

Gary, still on his knees on the floor, can only listen as the car starts and takes away the only good things in his life, if only for a night.

-

Gary startles awake, lungs heaving for air, his skin slick with sweat. After a moment of trying and failing to collect himself, he gives into the urge to cry, letting sobs wrack his thin body.

Jean left him that night, but she came back. She had  _ always  _ come back to him. But now...now she is gone, forever. It’s over, there will be no more Gary and Jean and Griff. There’s nothing left for him to go back to.

Gary can’t bring himself to get out of bed that morning. A maid comes by, knocking on the door, telling him he needs to leave or pay for another night. He ignores her.

By eleven that night he can no longer ignore his hunger. Gary pulls himself out of bed, puts his clothes on, grabs his wallet, and walks out of the room. He pays for another two nights at the hotel and wanders through the streets of Omaha for a few hours.

He settles in at a seedy bar and drinks until he can’t see straight. A girl picks him up and they have sex in the bathroom stall, where she leaves him to pass out. Hours later, the owner of the bar drags Gary out and dumps him into the back alley.

He lays sprawled on a pile of garbage bags until sunrise.


End file.
